


Druglord and 70's

by MoonCigar



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drinking, Drug Use, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 17:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13171443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonCigar/pseuds/MoonCigar
Summary: A story where Stan and Rick meet in their 20's in a sleepy college town.





	Druglord and 70's

“You fucking left me there!” Rick screamed as his fist made contact with left side of Stan’s face. The impact wasn’t that strong. Rick's punches were strong, but nothing Stanley couldn’t handle. The surprise of the hit is what sent him falling. 

‘Well this feels familiar” Stan muttered as he lay in the dirt. He could hear Stanford yelling at the kids to get back into the house as he subdued Rick in an arm lock. He was thankful for that. This wasn’t some supernatural threat, no dimensional portals or monsters involved, just some old personal bullshit that never got handled. 

God, those punches still hurt like a bitch though. 

Rick continued to fruitlessly struggle out of Ford’s twelve fingered hold. “Let me go Ford, I have to go and beat the living shit out of your brother!”

"Ah geez Rick." Muttered the brown haired teen a few yards away. The kid was a scrawny little thing. 

“As much as I, at times, share that sentiment, I can’t have you acting out in front of the kids.” Ford replied, his voice and composure calm, like he’s done it before. "I guess this isn't his first time dealing with Rick Sanchez." Stan thought. "Huh, small world."

“They battled against an one eyed, apocalyptic demon, I'm sure they'll be fine FORD!” Rick spits, turning his steely gaze onto Stan. It was like Rick traveled back 35 years. Angry, immature, and too smart for his own overemotional good. “But you man, what the fuck man!”

“We still on that?” Stanley huffed as he picked himself up from the ground. Dusting the dirt from his breeches. 

"HELL YES WE ARE. That shit never even left the fucking station asshole!” Rick shouted. What he did over thirty years ago must still be a sore spot, if the normally, nonchalant Rick was this riled up. Rick started rubbing his hand, his first already getting sore from the force of the punch.

 

-35 years prior-

 

“So, this is a college town. Huh,” Stan muttered to himself, unconsciously scratching his stomach as he stared off into the night. "Thought it would be bigger." The man had been on the road for a few days now. Practically getting chased out the last town by the residents. Who knew that the blue dye on the towels could also stain skin?

It had been a long day of driving and he really should be looking for a food joint. Living off of slim jims and potato chips was starting to get old. The constant constipation helped out with long drives though. Stan didn't have to check his wallet though to know that he had pretty much spent 15 bucks on a tank of gas, he only had five dollars to his name. 

Scratching the back of his head, he looked toward his back seat. He still had his merch though. All the towels, vacuum cleaners and what not. All failed sales products he dug out from the back of a dumpster. Perfectly good wares that he could swindle a profit out of with little to no production cost. Would he even be able to sell cleaning products in a college town? Did college kids even clean? 

Looking around, he spotted a small bricked building in the distance. The neon green martini glass beckoned him forward. Going against his better judgment, Stan locked the Stanley Mobile. The air was cold in the little town. With every breath, puffs of scream would expend out of his mouth, it just made sense to head inside. He made the long trek to the bar. 

$$$

To say Rick Sanchezs was bored would be an understatement. The college drop out was leaning against the wall of Beaverlake's local bar, cleverly named the Beaver Bar. The students always had a little laugh with that one. It was eight o clock on a Thursday night, so the place was a little slow. Most of the students were in their dorms, attempting to finish their homework so they could party. While others were already at the bar, smart enough to not schedule class on a Friday. 

Rick gave a huff has he took another drag of his cigarette. “Fucking sheep” he grumbled under his breath. Birdperson told him that he wouldn't come out tonight because he had to study for midterms. The over achieving fuck. Squanchy wasn't around, but he told him that they were setting up for a party tomorrow. Didn't even have to tell Rick that he was invited, because of course he was. He was there to help supply the entertainment. 

Fingering the little bags of pills in his pocket, he gave another sigh. While the drug dealing business was profitable, it was unpredictable in the most boring way. Some days it would be busy as fuck. Frat boys coming to him and slapping him on the back. Hoping to make a sale to that their ship would set sail. Sorority sisters leaning forward, giving Rick a bird's eye view of their plunging cleavage, hoping to get a discount. Sometimes it worked. Young punk kids, trying to see what all the bustle was about. Most of the time though, it was a lot of waiting in places like this.

Standing in his corner, he scans the sleep room one more time. It was pretty monotonous. A few students were sitting at table with beers, and some of the locals were at the bar. Nothing new, nothing exciting. Rick didn't even know why he was still here honestly. He had entered college under the need to please his father. After one too many arguments with the professors, and the frustration of the school schedules, he simply dropped out. He had tried to talk his friends into dropping out with him, but they wouldn't budge. Birdperson too focused on finishing his degree and Squanchy too in love with the college party scene. Rick himself liked a good time, and could keep up with almost anyone. Key word, almost. Squaunchy was like a whole other species.

Looking at the time on the clock, Rick let out another heavy side. His ass was getting numb and his beer was warm. He could wait another hour or so here and attempt to see if something interesting would come his way. OR, he could go home right now, finish his pack of cigarettes and work one of his side projects.. 

As Rick was mulling over his options, the door to the entrance swings open. The noise of heavy foot falls brings Rick out of his bored stupor. He sees a man shuffling towards the bar. A corduroy jacket that looked like it had seen better days slung against his arm. A thread bare, plaid button up showcased the man's broad shoulders. A messy mop of hair and a five day old shadow, framed his face. With a pair of ratty bell bottoms to complete the image, the man looked like he fought his way through the 70's and lost. 

The 70's man took a seat, and attempted to wave the sedated bartender for a drink. 

“Oh, something interesting.” Rick muttered with a sly smile. 

$$$$

Opening the door, Stan was greeted with the site of a poorly lit bar. The décore was what one would expect when entering any other establishment like it. A pool table in the the back, a few arcade tables along the wall, and some tables in the middle of the room. All bathed in yellow florescent lights with green glass covers. The actual bar was pressed against the wall to the side.

Stanley made a beeline to the bar, willing to spend his last few dollars on a cold beer. The bartender seemed to be bored out of his gourd. Stan had to almost yell to get the man's attention. Finally receiving his two dollar beer, Stan sat at the bar. His fist curled around the frosted mug as he took idle sips. There was a gave on the musty square television above the bar. The picture was static as all hell, but it was still better that staring at the wall. Stan would barely make out the colors of the teams, from the announcer's garbled voice, it seemed to be some local football team. Looking at the colored banners on the walls, Stan assumed it was this college's team against whoever.

“Heh, the beaver team.”

“That's a rerun of last week's “Big Game.” A bored tone stated. Stanley almost jumped at the man's voice, not expecting anyone in the bar to try and approach him. 

Stan responds automatically, “Yeah?” Turning around, Stan saw a lankly man, standing before him. Nothing on the man looked brand new. He wore torn up jeans. A Van Hallin tee that had probably never been through the wash, with a beat up leather jacket. The stranger's hair was a mass of electric blue, striking out every which way. A gutter punk. 

The stranger gave a nod, moving to sit in the bar stool right next to Stan. “This place is too cheap to get actual cable, so they just play the VHS' over and over.”

Stanley made a noise of acknowledgment as he took another swig of his beer. He wasn't entirely sure why this gutter punk decided to come up to him and talk. Maybe it was the long drive but, normally, he would cut off small talk bullshit. This time though, probably because he was lonely, he couldn't help but immediately like this guy. 

Lifting his knees slightly, the lanky man started swinging the stool back and forth. “So, you knew in town huh?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“New blood rarely comes in during mid terms my friend.” Keeping his eye on the bartender, Rick leans over the bar and grabs a bowl of pretzels. “Ahah!” With a triumphant grin, Rick starts munching on the stolen bar food. Offering some to Stan, who gladly took a handful. 

Rick stared at the burly man. For some reason, he just liked the guy.“How about you and I blow this stand and go somewhere more interesting?”

Stan choked on his pretzel. He rushed to grab his beer, chugging it as Rick cackled. 

“Nothing like that yet you prude, but it looks like you could use to use a night out and I'm bored as shit.”

“You are use to getting your way, aren't you.” Stan wheezes.

“If you already knew that 70's, then hurry up!” Rick replied, finishing the bowl and jumping down from the seat. The chunky chains on his books clanged loudly. It was a wonder to Stan how he had not heard the stranger coming behind him a moment before. Finishing off the last dregs of his beer, he gets up from the booth and follows the punk rocker. Stealing the tip left for the bartender. 

They break into a run out of the door when they hear the bartender shout “HEY!.”

This night just got a little more interesting. Whether that was a good or bad thing, Stanley wasn't so sure yet. 

$$$$

“So, 70's. Where to?” 

Stan quirks an eyebrow at the new nickname. They ran down the street and took a sharp corner to try and avoid the bartender chasing them. They eventually stop under a street light, Stanley leaned against the brick wall. He was panting lightly, not used to running after spending hours in his car.  
Rick had his hands on his knees, catching his breath as well. He reaches in his pocket and pulls a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one up and taking a deep drag. He looks up to meet Stan's incredulous stare. 

“What. I don't trust air that I can't see.” Rick retorts. 

“Why are you calling me 70's anyhow?”

Rick takes a drag. “Because you look like the 70's tried to call for their stuff back, and you ran from them.”

“Least I ain't some gutter punk.” Stanley muttered, moping. 

“This.” Rick directs to all of him. “Is a fashion statement that expresses exactly who I am as an individual.”

“Oh yeah? And what is that.”

“I DON'T GIVE A FUUUCCCCCCKKKK!” Rick shouts down the empty street. His arms high about his head.

“Well, I Don't Give a Fuck.” Stanley brings out his hand. “The name is Stanley Pines.” He didn't know why he decided to go with his real name. He hadn't used it in so long, opting for fake names, it sounded strange even to him.

Rick looks at the hang offered to him. “Rick Sanchez.” He grabs the other's hand in a firm shake. “I Don't Give a Fuck is my father's name.”

Not quite managing to keep down his smile, Stan asks. “Well, what do we do now?”

Rick takes a drag of his cigarette. “You gotta car don't you?”

“How did you guess?”

“You looked like you haven't showered in days and it's too late for any of the buses to be running.”

“Gee, thanks.” Stan muttered, rubbing his scruff and suddenly self conscious. On long drives like that, he tries not too look in mirrors too much. Actually, he tries not to look at himself longer than needed, period. 

Rick is suddenly very close to him. A hairs breath away from touching. Tilting his head up, Stanley realizes just how tall the stranger before him is. The strong smell of smoke perforating from his cigarette. 

“Don't worry.” Rick breaths, his eyes looking up and down, “You could smell worse 70's.” With a shark toothed smile, “So, where is this car of yours?” he bites his cigarette and turned around. Completely ignoring Stan's desperate attempt to slow his heart rate down. 

Choosing to ignore just how much he likes him so far, Stan puffs his chest and retorts.“The Stanmobile is a few blocks that way.”

“Stanmobile. That's a shitty name.”

$$$$

“Fuuuuccckkk.” Rick whistles at the red vehicle. 

Stan smiled. He fucking loved his car, she was family and home all into one. “Let me move some things so you can sit.” 

“I mean, Stanmobile is still a shitty name, but you can name that girl anything and I'd fuck her.” Stan watches as Rick run's his hand down the red hood. This man was long everything. Long legs, long arms, long fingers...

“You gonna hurry up?” Fuck, was he staring?

“Uh, uhm, yeah yeah, give me a second.” Averting his eyes in embarrassment, he quickly shoves the stuff from the front seat to the back. Most of it was trash, but he could deal with that later. “O-ok done.” Stan mutters, leaning over to open the passenger side door. 

Rick grins at the flustered head and falls in the seat. He was pretty sure he read the vibes right. They'd have to see where the night lead them. He immediately makes himself comfortable in the car. Leaning back, eyeing the interior. He gave a whistle.

“She's sexy as hell! I'm glad I have a chance to be inside her.” Rick's grin grows even wider at the sound of coughing.

Stan revs the engine. “Y-yeah, she does the job. The Stanmobile gives a healthy hum. Thank god.“So where to?”

“There is a college party about three miles down. Take a left on Booking Ave...”

$$$$

They stopped in front of a large Victorian house. Stan gawked at the white and red mansion with the gaudy Greek lettering. The wide windows glowed yellow as silhouettes of people drinking danced along the pane. The sound of muffled chatter and music could be heard.

Rick paid no mind to Stan as he walked up the three rows of stairs.“You never been to a frat party 70's?” Rick flicked the cigarette butt in the snow.

”Was never smart enough for college. I've only ever seen things like this in movies!” Stan retorts as he tries to catch up with Rick.

Rick gave a smirk. “Well, 70's, welcome to the muse of frat movies!” He opens the door. The once muted music was a loud blaring boom, paired with the roar of the crowd. It was like entering into a movie set. The crowd was an equal amount of girls and guys. All bunched together. Sitting on stair cases, leaning of various pieces of furniture or walls. It seemed that the having at least one red cup in your hand was the bare minimum. No one looked up to the sound of the door, too busy drinking and chatting with each other. 

Rick took a few steps in. Brought both of his hands to his face.

“HEEEEEYYY FUCKERS!” The blue haired rocker screamed to the crowd. “I flew back in time and dragged the 70's back with me!!” Like a flock of seagulls, every head turned to them at the door. A boisterous cheer burst from the group. Some slurring a greeting, while others screamed their welcome. Stan has never seen anything like it. People usually were screaming for him to get out. 

Stan looked over to Rick with a half bemused, half concerned, expression. 

“You know Stan is just one syllable right?”

“Aw, don't be like that 70's. Your look and name give you an edge man.” Rick slings his long arm over Stan's shoulders. “Everyone is looking at you because you aren't dressed like the rest of these drunken cattle.” 

The small smile on Stan's face brings causes Rick to sling him closer. Stan breathed in the smell of burned lucky strikes and cheap deodorant and tried to pay no mind to the heat under his collar.

“Now, how about we go and get us a drink!” Rick bellows, leading them down through the crowd and into the kitchen. On the way people greet Rick with various pats on the shoulder. A tall guy with a green sweater and slacks walks up to them. 

“Hey Rick, thanks for coming!” The man hands them both red cups full of cheap beer. “Mi casa es su Casa.” With that, Posh walks off towards a blond in heels.

Sipping from his newly given beer, Stan comments. “You seem to be pretty chummy with people around here.”

Rick takes a giant swig of his beverage.“That's because I'm their drug dealer dude.”

Stan just blankly stares. “..Ah.” 

“What, are you surprised 70's?” Rick gave a smile, his hand giving a dramatic flourish. “Does my occupation ruin your wholesome image of me?”

Stan just snorts, taking another sip. “No, just the first time I've seen anyone be so blatant about it. You know, with Reagan in power and all that.” Looking him up and down he adds, “I'd be more surprised if you didn't sell drugs.”

This earns Stan a laugh. “Common 70's, lets get some real shit and not this piss.

“Whatever you say Drug lord.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! Planning to do at least one more chapter.


End file.
